


best laid plans

by marzipan (orphan_account)



Series: mollcroftiarty [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Continuation of, F/M, Gen, Novelist AU, Some Description of Violence, legwork!Mycroft, there is interrogation/torture-esque violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 18:13:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17771771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/marzipan
Summary: Mycroft meets Rosie.*upping the rating for violence, see tags





	best laid plans

**Author's Note:**

> clearly, when he says 'I'm not a spy'.....

“He’s getting  _ married.” _ He says the word the way someone might say ‘lobotomy.’

 

“My baby brother,” Mycroft continues in appalled disbelief. “Taking on the responsibility of becoming husband and father.”

 

He looks down at the man in the chair before him.

 

“Oh, don’t be dull, of course there is a baby, why else would they be doing this? And of course they’re keeping it, her family is much too conservative and image-conscious to agree to anything else,” Mycroft says. 

 

Mycroft frets, keeping his hands busy as he assembles the gun. It’s a different one, from the one he usually uses. The unfamiliarity does not soothe his big brotherly worries. The gun belongs to the man in the chair. 

 

He looks at him now, and the man looks back, eyes wide and terrified. He hasn’t said a word this whole time, despite Mycroft pouring out his heart and detailing his woes. This is largely because he is gagged.

 

Mycroft winces as he dislodges the shirt stuffed in the man’s mouth. He’s not fond of having to touch strangers’ saliva, even if his hands are gloved. He will do it, of course, and even without hesitation, but he doesn’t have to like it.

 

He points the gun at the man’s head.

 

“I’ll ask again: The address,” Mycroft says.

 

The man babbles an answer straight away. It’s been 16 hours, (four since the call, from their mother) but they got there in the end, and that’s all that matters, isn’t it?

 

“Will you let me go now?” the man pleads.

 

Mycroft gives him an incredulous look. 

 

“Of course not,” he says. “You think I’d tell you all that, about my own brother, and then just let you walk away from here?”

 

Outside the building, birds perch above the doorway. There is no audible gunshot. There is not even a telling tremor to scare them away. It’s all too well insulated.

 

.

 

“I can’t believe he would allow himself to be so irresponsible,” Mycroft bites out. “Of all the people in the world he could have gotten involved with, she is by far one of the most dangerous.”

 

Mycroft looks at his companion, asleep, and makes a face. “No, you don’t understand, they’re both far too young to understand what they’re getting into,” he continues.

 

“She is from a nice, proper family. Too proper. Proper enough that there are repercussions. And She- my brother is just a loose canon. It’s the only reason he appeals to her. Had they met each other five, ten years from now, they wouldn’t have given each other a second glance. He’d still be too far left of center in terms of respectability, and she would be a nice young lady moving up in the world.”

 

Mycroft huffs, cheeks reddening. “And that is all I want for them! Success, and ensured happiness. Together they’ll just- just- oh, it will be a nightmare.”

 

“He will resent her, for restricting his freedoms. She will hate him for seeming to retain more than her. And she has the backing of her family to ensure he stays in line. There is nothing I can do about it,” Mycroft says miserably. He pockets the flash drive he came for, and leaves the laptop. 

 

He does a final sweep, before leaving the room as if he was never there.

 

.

 

“Perhaps all is not lost,” Mycroft says, brightening considerably. “Perhaps she will still meet someone before the wedding is announced, and all of this will go away. It’s not about love, it’s about a desirable match.”

 

He’s alone in the control room; he’d forgotten. They’re all tied up in the lower deck.

 

He pulls out a phone and does a quick check of the calendar. 

 

Instead, he sees an email.

 

“Dammit,” he says. Wedding announcements have already gone out. As Mycroft is “abroad,” his has been emailed. There are five followup emails from his mother.

 

.

 

“How did they meet? God, the A&E, and that should tell you all you need to know about their relationship,” Mycroft says, burying his face in his hands. 

 

“He’d done something stupid but thankfully with an audience, because they all thought he’d broken his leg. And if I recall correctly, she’d fallen out of a window, too drunk to properly estimate her regular climbing ability. And what was the first thing they did together? Sneak out of the hospital!”

 

“Do these sound like people who should be raising a newborn? Together? I can only hope her family has the foresight to provide an army of nurses and nannies and teachers. Good God. Is it terrible if I won’t be sad if she has an accident? It is, isn’t it. I won’t think about it, then.”

 

Mycroft scoffs. “Whirlwind romance, that’s how they’ll spin it.”

 

“Perhaps it’s true, within hours of meeting each other they had a brunch date - they probably had  _ a lot of things _ in between, but brunch is what Mummy calls it, so that must be the official story.”

 

“Then the next weekend she  _ disappears _ , I remember the police calls, oh don’t look at me like that, of course I looked into it. Her family is frantic, but no worry, because it turns out she’s just on a romantic weekend getaway with her new  _ boyfriend _ . Hardly boyfriend and girlfriend at this point - I am willing to bet anything, that at this point, neither of them yet knew each other’s middle names.”

 

“What really happened was a four-day trip to Spain with my brother wherein they were nearly arrested at least once, and I have done my best to ensure any records of the rest of what the trip entailed stay sealed. Debauchery, mostly, which is harmless enough. But I wouldn’t be surprised if they were considered petty criminals in the country. It’s as if when they turned 20 they’d developed the compulsion to lie to people.”

 

“And that’s really the heart of it, they’re both so young. My brother has ambled out of adolescence into his twenties and is still barely on the verge of finding his footing halfway through them. It’s not that he will refuse to be responsible, but he does not even know the meaning of the word. You understand why I worry.”

 

The woman across from peers at him from over her horn-rimmed spectacles, brows knitted together.

 

“Mister Holmes, do you know why you’re here?” she asks.

 

Mycroft scowls. “To talk about my  _ feelings.” _

 

She sits back, watching him as if he were a particularly uncooperative specimen.

 

“You were stuck on an underwater enemy vessel for two and a half weeks,” she says. “Trauma is understandable. So is avoidance. But if you want to get back in the field as you’ve so requested, we need to be assured you are fit for the job. Now, take me through the event.”

 

He is rubbing his thumb across his forefinger and barely listening. The  _ wedding _ . It’s so  _ soon  _ (of course it is, she’ll start showing soon). He still needs to buy a  _ gift. _

 

“How long between your sign off and my next mission?” he asks.

 

“What?”

 

“Once you declare me fit for the field, or whatever you’d like to call it, how soon would my next mission be?” 

 

She stares at him for a long time, and he knows she’s trying to decide whether the question is a good or bad sign. No, she thinks she can deduce the exact reason he’s asking. He wonders if she can.

 

She finally sighs.

 

“Your superiors are pleased with your work. I imagine it would be immediately,” she says, and Mycroft starts to stand.

 

“Then, I will see you Friday,” he says. The shops are closed. He will go tomorrow. 

 

.

 

Mycroft manages to time the drop-off of the files so that he can catch a plane just in time back to London. It’s a small affair, but small by the bride’s family’s standards it not small at all.

 

Mycroft sneaks into the reception just in time to catch the tail end of his father’s speech. He winces, and hopes no one expected he would be the one to do it. Her family must have asked about him, and they must have been satisfied with whatever answer they were given because even Mummy hasn’t pressed. 

 

Sherlock, of course, catches his eye nearly immediately. Mycroft is surprised to see he looks a bit smug. Better than dread, he supposes. If his brother takes comfort in how uncomfortable Mycroft feels, then, well, small price. He raises his glass along with everyone else in the room.

 

People dance, and by instinct Mycroft drifts toward some dim corner and regrets it immediately realizing this is a wedding and other tipsy couples want such alcoves too. He makes friends with the ice sculpture, instead.

 

The newlywed couple corners him, matching mischievous smiles on their faces, and Mycroft’s first thought is to remind himself not to say aloud that he does not approve.

 

“Congratulations,” he manages, instead.

 

He turns to the bride.

 

“Victoria Andrea Laurence,” he says. She is minor royalty, and the attendance shows. “I believe this is the first time we are officially meeting.”

 

She gives her hand and he takes it.

 

“Anthea,” she says, leaning her head against Sherlock’s shoulder. Mycroft keeps forgetting how tall he’s gotten. It seems just yesterday he was William and tackling Mycroft in the knees.

 

“Ah, of course,” he says.

 

“I had it changed, since we were changing our names officially anyway,” she says with a fake yawn. “Victoria is so boring, and Andrea is worse. You two are quite special though, aren’t you? Anyways, I’m sure you knew all that already, and I know all about you.”

 

She smiles, he frowns, and he turns toward Sherlock.

 

“Only told her the bad bits, of course,” he says with a nod.

 

Mycroft can’t help himself in glancing down at Andrea- Anthea’s stomach. Sherlock catches it, of course, eyes tightening. 

 

“It’s not a bad thing,” he says. Anthea looks between the two, and at Sherlock’s wrapping his arm around her waist, she understands. She looks disappointed in Mycroft, if anything. 

 

“We happen to be very compatible,” Anthea says carefully, as if Mycroft is a small child who doesn’t understand relationships. “Neither of us want to be particularly tied down but we’re the same in that respect, too.”

 

“We share a disgusting amount of honesty,” Sherlock confirms.

 

They both look so young. Mycroft is only seven years Sherlock’s senior, but God, that makes a difference at this age. They look so young. 

 

Anthea carefully plucks the flute of champagne out of Sherlock’s hand, as if for show.

 

“And the baby’s never going to want for anything, you should know that,” she adds.

 

Mycroft’s ashamed of himself. He should be the one supporting his brother, and his new wife, offering kind words and sound advice. Instead, here they are, trying to console him. It’s not even a matter of approval.

 

“Yes of course,” Mycroft says. “My apologies for spoiling the mood. I truly wish you both the best.”

 

Anthea smiles, sweet and slightly impish, and Sherlock gives him a look quite similar in the eyes.

 

“You’ll come to the baby’s christening?” she asks.

 

Good God.

 

“Who knows,” Sherlock says, “we might even name him after you.”

 

They can’t possibly already know the sex!

 

“Kidding,” Sherlock says in exasperation. He spots John and Mary over Anthea’s shoulder, and loses all interest in Mycroft after that. 

 

He watches the newlyweds trail away toward their friends and the four of them talk over each other, exchanging hugs and barbs alike. Anthea seems to be getting along well with Sherlock’s friends, at least. And his brother doesn’t seem bothered in having just married far above his station.

 

Well, that’s that.

 

.

 

“It’s only because they’re still in their honeymoon period, a  _ literal _ honeymoon period, I might add,” Mycroft says, pulling on the ropes just so, so that the man is suspended high enough that Mycroft can manage eye contact. He moans a bit. It’s even worse now that he has no support. 

 

Mycroft walks over to the stool on top of which he’s unrolled his tools.

 

“They’re fine now, and they think that just because they’re on each other’s sides, they’ll be able to handle anything. They don’t have the life experience, Dragunov, are you listening to me? They don’t have the life experience to understand what it is they’ve gotten into,” Mycroft says.

 

“The public wedding, the society papers, and now a child on the way. They don’t understand how much of the time they’re going to have to keep on their public faces,” Mycroft flicks a knife across a choice tendon, frowning at the man when he shouts in pain and interrupts him. “Or, worse, they don’t and continue to live out the kind of lives that might very well result in their child becoming an orphan.”

 

“They won’t realize until it’s too late, and the fallout is sure to be vicious. I don’t want to be  _ anywhere _ near that when it happens,” Mycroft grumbles to himself.

 

.

 

“Mycroft, the baby’s coming. We’re on our way to the hospital, but I think she’ll be here before then,” Sherlock says into the phone. “Will you come anyway?”

 

There is painful moaning and shouting in the background, and Mycroft thinks Sherlock sounds entirely too calm and unaffected while his wife is screaming bloody murder.

 

“I- yes, of course.” He makes his way down to the hospital, but traffic is hellish. He learns later that Sherlock managed to secure a police escort, and that Anthea did get to the hospital before the baby arrived.

 

Mary is there to meet him when he arrives, and he realizes they’re heading toward the nursery.

 

“Do you want to see her?” She looks inordinately pleased, for some reason. Ah, perhaps they asked her to be the godmother just earlier.

 

“She’s not with the parents?” Mycroft asks.

 

“She was, but they just took her down. Anthea’s sleeping like the dead, and your parents are quietly fussing about. I figured you’d want to take advantage of this brief period of quiet to meet your niece.”

 

_ Niece _ . 

 

Mycroft hadn’t even realized. He’d been so baffled and disapproving at Sherlock’s life choices he scarcely noticed this might affect him in some way as well, however minute. He is an  _ uncle _ now.

 

They stop in front of the window, and Mycroft glances over to find rows and  _ rows _ of babies. He takes a step forward, with morbid curiosity, scanning the rows of tiny infants. They all look alike, honestly. Or maybe he’s just afraid to look too closely.

 

“There she is,” Mary whispers, waving with her fingers at the baby girl third in on the second row. 

 

Mycroft looks over.

 

She opens her eyes as he does, and stares out into the big open. The same blue as Sherlock’s. 

 

He knows she’s not looking at him, she’s too young for that. But all the same, Mycroft can’t look away.

 

“What’s her name?” Mycroft asks in hushed tones, not looking at Mary, but watching the infant breathe. 

 

“Rosie,” she says quietly, a smile in her voice. Ah, so that was why. They’d named her after her godmother.

 

“Rosie,” Mycroft repeats. He looks away then, down at his watch. 8:12 p.m., on a random spring Wednesday. He feels he should make a note of this moment.

 

.

 

“You did very good work in Prague,” the deputy director tells him. Mycroft knows he’s about to give him his next mission. Best to rip it off like a bandaid, then.

 

“I’d like to be reassigned,” Mycroft says. 

 

“I’m...sorry?” 

 

Of course it’s to be expected, he’s been avoiding London like the plague the last nine months.

 

“I’d like to be reassigned, to an analyst position, here in London,” Mycroft says. He clears his throat. “A desk job, sir.”  

 

The man frowns, but Mycroft doesn’t want to hear it.

 

“It’s non-negotiable,” he adds. 

 

“I’m sure we can work something out,” the deputy director says, a bit of chastisement in his voice.

 

They end up negotiating, anyway. For an entire week. They do work something out.

 

It’s just as well, because he can’t hold his niece if he’s dead.

 

.

 

Mycroft is there to drive them when Anthea is finally set to leave her cushy, private hospital room to go home. 

 

He knows it would be appropriate for him to help with the bags and the doors and all of that, but Sherlock’s got it, and the nurse has got a handle on the wheelchair. 

 

He bounces the bundle in his arms and narrates the scene before them, as she is far too young to possibly comprehend on her own.

 

“See, your mummy and daddy are all very new to this, but they’re very happy to have you,” he whispers. “And I’ll be here every step of the way.”

 

“I can’t wait to take real bath,” Anthea says dramatically. “Drown me in flowers, Sherlock.”

 

He gives her a peck on the forehead, and then makes a face to convey that she is truly disgusting at the moment. 

 

Mycroft, with much reluctance, passes Rosie back to her mother.

 

He starts the car, then blinks. His GPS still has Sherlock’s address programmed to Baker Street. Clearly, it’s outdated.

 

He clears his throat.

 

“Home, then?”

 

In the rearview mirror, he can see the three of them huddled together in the very portrait of a happy family. Despite Anthea’s unwashed hair, Rosie’s insistence and scratching her own face, and Sherlock’s deceptively blase attitude, Mycroft thinks perhaps they’ve got it figured out, far more than he knew.

**Author's Note:**

> [solrosan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/solrosan) wrote a fic once where Anthea was technically part of the royal family and THE IDEA REALLY STUCK WITH ME apparently: [Know when you are beaten](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11880141)


End file.
